Wesley Rothman
Indigo Blues
Why do I need feet when I have wings…
―Frida Kahlo
See the bullet of my body, blouse blown open, pistol in hand. I’ve a belt of ammo
that shines for you. My name is one consonant short of freedom. Lips red as a hammer
and sickle. Don’t mess with them. They’ll burn you, shred you like shrapnel, bless you
with their holy blood. Rings ring every one of my fingers―camouflage the wedding band
tucked in my dresser. Beneath loose tops of triangles, squares, polka dots, and flora,
skin curves, the sharp edge of pelvis, what it is to live in thighs and ribs, a bare, winged
collarbone. I fly from my robe, from the drapings I own. And I strike the shine of taffeta
better than you. The lace workings of ventricle, love triangles run amok, woven capes
of cotton grounding me, some kind of ghastly fabric gravity. A body-cast, a corset
painted by mind―my communist pregnancy. Tie it all up―azaleas and ribbons
and scarves and silver―my many crowns of morning patios, cigarettes, the sun
flashing its bare breast. My advice to you: Always wear something yellow. Move
in angles and mosaic. Never not wear something around your neck. Look straight
at them or down. Match colors that don’t match. If you wear suits, try a skirt. If you wear
dresses, try some shorts. Pearls and beads and gold are fine. But silver feels best
around your wrist.
Wesley Rothman's poems and criticism have appeared or are forthcoming in 32 Poems, Crab Orchard Review, Drunken Boat, Harpur Palate, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, Inter|rupture, PANK, Phantom Limb, The Rumpus, Similar:Peaks::, Vinyl, and the Los Angeles Review of Books, among others. He works widely in publishing, and teaches writing and cultural literatures at Emerson College and Suffolk University
Return to November 2013 Edition
Why do I need feet when I have wings…
―Frida Kahlo
See the bullet of my body, blouse blown open, pistol in hand. I’ve a belt of ammo
that shines for you. My name is one consonant short of freedom. Lips red as a hammer
and sickle. Don’t mess with them. They’ll burn you, shred you like shrapnel, bless you
with their holy blood. Rings ring every one of my fingers―camouflage the wedding band
tucked in my dresser. Beneath loose tops of triangles, squares, polka dots, and flora,
skin curves, the sharp edge of pelvis, what it is to live in thighs and ribs, a bare, winged
collarbone. I fly from my robe, from the drapings I own. And I strike the shine of taffeta
better than you. The lace workings of ventricle, love triangles run amok, woven capes
of cotton grounding me, some kind of ghastly fabric gravity. A body-cast, a corset
painted by mind―my communist pregnancy. Tie it all up―azaleas and ribbons
and scarves and silver―my many crowns of morning patios, cigarettes, the sun
flashing its bare breast. My advice to you: Always wear something yellow. Move
in angles and mosaic. Never not wear something around your neck. Look straight
at them or down. Match colors that don’t match. If you wear suits, try a skirt. If you wear
dresses, try some shorts. Pearls and beads and gold are fine. But silver feels best
around your wrist.
Wesley Rothman's poems and criticism have appeared or are forthcoming in 32 Poems, Crab Orchard Review, Drunken Boat, Harpur Palate, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, Inter|rupture, PANK, Phantom Limb, The Rumpus, Similar:Peaks::, Vinyl, and the Los Angeles Review of Books, among others. He works widely in publishing, and teaches writing and cultural literatures at Emerson College and Suffolk University
Return to November 2013 Edition